


Terra Pacifica

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flint has a potty mouth, M/M, bartender!Silver, surfer!Flint, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: James Flint moved to the quiet beach town of Pacifica to find some peace and catch some waves.  Instead, he gets lost driving around the city, and ends up in a hipster joint with a very comely bartender.  No peace for him ever!





	Terra Pacifica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [krimsnkrams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krimsnkrams/gifts).



> The song John is singing along to is "American Money" by BØRNS (all copyrights reserved) and I recommend that you listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLBmqwA4AGc) while you read this. 
> 
> Pacifica is a real place. (San Francisco is a myth.)

James Flint lifted the collar of his coat as he got out of his car and swiped his credit card through the slit in the gas station pump. “Summer!” he muttered to himself. It had been one of those days for him, the kind that starts with a clogged toilet and lighting the wrong end of your cigarette and ends, apparently, in running out of gas in the middle of the fucking city. How does that even happen to a human being, one had to wonder. His phone was dead, so praying to the gods of Google Maps had been an abortive effort. Thankfully, he had been good at navigating by sheer instinct and if his instincts weren't lying to him, the interstate was roughly _that_ way. Once he was there, it would only be a few blissful miles before he could veer off towards the quiet, seaside vistas of Highway 1, which would take him home to Pacifica.

But first things first. He pressed the cheapest gas option button and shivered again inside his wool coat. This too was adding insult to injury: gas was way cheaper in Pacifica, even though it was no more than 15 miles out from where he stood. His eyes scanned the street, attempting to orient himself better. He was in what appeared to be a busy part-residential, part-commercial part of town. The narrow streets teamed with droves of young people, most of them dressed as if the weather had not suddenly dropped by twenty degrees since yesterday.

“Fucking June!” Flint cursed under his breath. He had read _The House of Sand and Fog_ , in which the fog sure as shit featured heavily (far more than the sand), so why was he still so surprised by the capricious and upside down Bay Area weather? “I wasn’t paying attention to the fucking _weather fronts_ in the novel,” he responded, engaged in a lively argument with himself.

Christ, he needed a drink. 

But he had gas, so his own liquor cabinet, in the verdant hills of Pacifica, away from the noise of humanity and construction of San Francisco, was only a fifteen minute drive away (assuming he could find the god damn interstate). His eyes drifted desperately across the street again, where a nondescript bar that may as well have been a 1920’s speakeasy for all its lack of signage, boldly proclaimed “OPEN” in neon pink letters. He could charge his phone in there, _then_ supplicate the gods of Google Maps.

What the fuck had happened to him and since when was he so dependent on god damn technology? Give him a map and a compass any day, and he could find his way out of a jungle with his arms tied behind his back. But not out of San Francisco, sweet Jesus, the streets didn’t make any fucking sense here. How could a city so small be so _annoying_?

Flint had just gotten back behind the wheel of his car when the heavens opened up and God himself extended a fat finger to give him a sign: a car pulled out right in front of the nondescript bar. Street parking in San Francisco was such a rarity, that Flint gunned his engine and swerved his car right into the miraculous opening. Nevermind he didn’t technically _need_ that parking spot. In this fucking city, when God gives you a parking spot, you park and say “Thank you.”

Inside, the bar was narrow and dark, with marble countertops and brass railings which might as well have been original. That was another thing about San Francisco: things at times could actually be as old as they appeared; or totally not. Not so in Pacifica, where what you saw was pretty much what you got. It was true Americana, apple pie and pick up trucks, picket fences and doors that did not need locking. But mostly, it was easy access to the surf.

Mind you, the water was cold as fuck and the rip currents were the deadliest he’d ever had the displeasure of encountering, but you couldn’t pay for a prettier view, especially at sundown, when the sun dipped below the marine layer and illuminated the skies and the sea in a myriad of colors among the jagged coast of Rockaway Beach. And the waves, well, the waves were magnificent. There were definitely worse places to die than in Pacifica.

“What’ll it be?” A tuneful, youthful voice brought Flint out of his reveries.

“Oh… uh… I’ll take a shot of Cazadores and I need to charge my phone,” he replied, half-turning towards the bartender, still rummaging in his pockets for his phone. Then he lifted his eyes and found himself looking into a sight so beautiful, it had to be unnatural. A demon, possibly. Actually, nothing would surprise him at this point, in this town.

“I’ll need to see your ID,” the vision before him said with a lackadaisical air.

“You’re fucking shitting me,” Flint responded, charmingly. But, fuck’s sakes, he was pushing forty. How old did the twink think he was?

“We card,” the little shit replied, nonchalantly pointing to a sign behind him, which Flint lifted his eyes to and read “WE CARD” in bright red letters. The little shit’s eyes, incidentally, were some fucking transcendental shade of blue. Flint could see them even underneath the rim of some pretentious-ass hipsterific fedora that the bartender was wearing. “So, you drinking or what?”

“Riiiiiight,” Flint drawled out, fishing his wallet out of his coat’s inner pocket and handing his ID to the hipster in the fedora.

“Thank you,” the bartender pushed the driver’s license back across the marble top, “James.” The way his name sounded coming from those lips sent a shiver up Flint’s back.

“It’s Flint,” he corrected. “No one calls me James.”

“Not even your mom?”

“My mom’s dead.”

“Oh.” The kid turned away, arm quickly reaching towards the upper shelf for the bottle of Cazadores, giving Flint a nice view of the muscles of his back. He had a particularly nice serratus, Flint observed with professional pride, which he supposed came in handy if you were twirling bottles all day. “I’m genuinely sorry,” the bartender said, pushing the shot glass towards Flint.

“‘s fine,” Flint muttered, averting his eyes and picking up the shot glass. “Was a long time ago. I was a kid.”

“Then I’m even more sorry.” The fedora lifted and for a moment Flint saw what he must have mistook for sincerity in the bartender’s face. But surely, just as he was perfectly entitled to slip into the examination of a man’s back muscles due to being a physical therapist, this young hipster must have been in the habit of playing the empathetic game with his customers.

The bartender had long hair. Flint hadn’t noticed it at first, because it was piled into a loose bun at the nape of his neck and obscured by the rim of the hat. But with the hat sat aside for the time being, Flint could admire the whole picture, the obscenely fine neck included.

He reflected that now was the time to down his tequila and get the fuck back to his car before one drink turned into two or three. Instead he took a long sip and granted himself the opportunity to cast his eyes over his gracious host's chest.

“So,” the bartender extended his hand towards Flint and for a moment of sheer panic, he thought he was going to shake his hand. “You want to charge your phone, or what?” _Fuck_. Somehow between ogling this guy and judging him, Flint had forgotten what he had come into that bar for (besides the tequila). “Only outlet is next to the till,” the kid nodded towards the back of the bar, still keeping his hand extended until Flint gingerly placed his phone into it.

“Thanks…”

“John.”

“Thanks, John.”

“No problem… Flint.”

Inexplicably, Flint wanted to bend this… this _John_ over his knee and get a nice hold of his gluteus medius (call it professional curiosity again). Not the gluteus maximus, mind you, any twink could have a firm booty. Flint was much more interested in the muscle underneath that attached to the top of the hip. The way it moved under his hands, when grasped just so… Would John grind down into Flint’s thigh then, press those hipbones into his lap until it hurt? Jesus Christ, those jeans were _tight_.

“You want another drink while you wait for your phone to charge?”

A part of Flint wanted to ask, “Don’t you have any other customers?” Back home, in Pacifica, everyone at the local bar knew that Flint didn’t come there to socialize. But the weaker part, the part that wanted to know what John’s latissimus dorsi would feel like under his hands, simply nodded helplessly.

“Now you know I’m gonna have to card you again,” John’s smile at his own shitty joke was so bright that Flint could not help but smile in return.

“As long as you get some life back into my phone, you can card me as many times as you want,” he responded. Then paused, playing his reply back in his mind, and marveling at how fucking _lame_ he sounded. Wow, he’d been out of the dating scene for… well, a long ass fucking time. And that was fine. Humans, in general, were more trouble than they were worth. But now, in the presence of Serratus anterior over here… Well, it made a man reconsider his vows of chastity (real or imaginary ones, either way).

“Oh, I’ll juice you up, no worries.” The hot fucker winked and Flint’s boner (there was no use in denying he was sporting one at this point) twitched inside his pants. Clearly, one of them was much better at this whole “flirting” thing.

John, in the meantime, had pushed another shot glass towards Flint and turned to chat up his other customers, who all to the last were tight-jeaned, heavily tattooed, fedora’d hipsters. Idly, Flint wondered whether John too was sporting any tattoos. He couldn’t see the skin of his arms since John had been wearing a long sleeved shirt. Long though the sleeves may have been, it also featured a v-neck so deep that Flint could basically count the bumps on John’s breast bone. Truly, the entire thing was an ordeal put upon his way by Satan, and for a moment, Flint considered crying into his tequila. Instead, he shot it back and rose from the bar stool.

“I’d like to settle up when you get a chance,” he said, using his most adult, clear voice. He wasn’t supposed to be in this part of town anyways. He had no idea what this part of town even was. All he was trying to do was run one simple errand, and now here he was: drinking with hipsters. 

A song had been playing in the background, something vaguely bluesy and alternative, smooth and wistful, and Flint caught himself staring at John’s hips as they swayed to the melody. 

John finally came back, carrying both his cell phone and an empty mason jar with a bill inside. He had been mouthing along to the lyrics of the song.

_So take me to the paradise_  
_In your eyes_  
_Green like American money_  
_You taste just right_  
_Sweet like Tennessee honey_

_And we can run away_  
_Swimming in the sunlight every day_  
_Paradise in your eyes_  
_Green like American money_

John held Flint’s gaze a few seconds too long as he slid the mason jar across the marble countertop. Flint swallowed around a very parched throat, despite the tequila he’d consumed. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, slapping a twenty onto the bar. Now he didn't usually consider himself to be the epitome of generosity, but he figured he was leaving roughly a forty percent tip. “Take care,” he added as both his eyes twitched at his own inanity. 

When he got back to his car and started the engine, he noticed a business card had been slipped into the back of his cell phone case. It didn’t have a whole lot of information on it, but it did the trick.

_Bar Walrus_  
_John Silver, Manager_

***

James Flint really hated himself and his stupid, no-good, bird-brained life choices. He cursed everyone in the greater Bay Area as he circled past Bar Walrus yet again. He’d spent the last twenty-five minutes looking for parking and he was about to turn around and drive his stupid ass back to Pacifica if one of these fucking yuppies didn’t move their car, and fast.

At last, he saw a young woman in a pleather jacket and a messenger boy hat walking up to her car, and like any responsible citizen, Flint did the only thing he could: he stalked her and pounced on her parking spot. He hated San Francisco for reducing him to this. But most of all, he hated John Silver, Manager, for robbing him of his sleep and what was left of his self-respect.

He had made himself wait all week too before going back to the Walrus, not wanting to seem creepy or desperate, or any of the things he secretly felt like. (Thirsty as fuck.) Cold wind hit him in the face and fucked up every attempt at lighting his cigarette.

“Those things will kill you,” a familiar voice said, followed by the appearance of the man himself who blocked the wind out with his body to allow Flint’s lighter the opportunity to come to its senses.

“Not if I kill me first,” Flint grumbled in response, taking a long, satisfying drag to steady his nerves. “Thanks…” His voice trailed off as he lifted his eyes.

“Did your phone run out of juice again?” Silver smiled at him with a cocky grin that lit up the street block. He appeared to have been carrying a cardboard box into the bar, which now rested between his feet. Despite the chilling summer weather, he wore nothing but another plunging v-neck that hugged his chest tight enough for Flint to see that his nipples had been pierced and he sucked on his cigarette so hard that he almost finished the whole thing in a single drag. The v-neck was also short-sleeved this time, but Flint didn’t dare to have a closer look. Instinctively he reached for another cigarette. “Come inside, it’s fucking freezing. You can smoke later,” Silver said, bending over to pick the box up and shouldering his way into the bar.

Flint finished his cigarette and then had another one, thanking the gods for a fresh pack.

The bar had been just as dark, but significantly more crowded than the last time he’d been there. Still, he used his superior upper body strength to move hipsters out of his way as he shouldered a path to the marble countertop of the bar. Silver was busy mixing drinks and chatting up a small gaggle of techies, allowing Flint a few moments rest to take it all in. The Himness. Great god, when had he become that guy, the one leering at the bartender from a dark corner of the establishment.

“We just ran out of Cazadores,” Silver declared, turning towards Flint with such speed that it made one wonder whether he hadn’t been feeling the weight of his gaze on his ass the entire time. It knocked the wind out of Flint again. “I can get you a shot of Milagros?”

“Sure… that’s… fine,” Flint swallowed.

“I’ll need to see your ID again.”

“You’re joking. You remember my drink but not that I’m old enough to have it?”

Silver leaned across the bar. “House rules, man.” Flint could actually see them now through the drop in the v-neck, two tiny bar-bells embellishing the enticing, pink knobs of the bartender’s nipples. He licked his lips and reached for his driver’s license, avoiding Silver’s eyes. His own eyes drifted casually over to Silver’s exposed forearms and the firebird that was emblazoned there, tail feathers wrapping around all the way to his wrist.

“Nice ink,” Flint finally managed. “Does it mean anything to you?”

Silver handed him back his ID after an extremely thorough examination. “It’s a phoenix. A mythological bird that dies and is reborn from its own ashes.”

“I know what a phoenix is. I meant…” Flint stopped, meeting Silver’s eyes again, yet still unable to look directly into them, as if he might go blind from looking directly at an eclipse. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Silver twirled around, grabbing a bottle of Milagros and pushing a very generous pour towards Flint. “It means not to let the past define you.” Flint snorted. “You don’t agree.”

“We are all defined by our past.”

“It’s a choice,” Silver shook his head. “I choose to rise from my own ashes, a man reborn. What about you?” Flint thought of relocating to Pacifica, of the call of the waves, the way his lungs felt each time he broke back towards the surface after taking a particularly hard pummeling. Still, not quite a man reborn. “Any tats, I mean?”

“What kind of a name for a bar is Walrus, anyways?” Flint changed the topic.

“Hold that thought,” Silver smiled and walked over to the other side of the counter to fill more orders. For a manager, Flint observed looking about the place, he didn’t seem to have a lot of employees to manage. After a few minutes, Silver sidled back up to Flint’s side of the bar, cleaning the countertop with a certain amount of intensity. “The owner is a big Beatles fan,” he said to Flint.

“What?”

“I am the walrus? Goo goo g’joob?”

“That’s just weird.”

“Or, is it whimsical and brilliant?”

“I don’t mean the song. I mean calling the bar after…” Flint wasn’t winning this at all. “Oh, nevermind.”

“So, really? No one calls you James?”

The obnoxiously hot hipster really had a way of taking the wind out of Flint’s sails. Not that there was any wind to begin with. He was completely out of his depths here.

“Do they call you Jim? Jimmy?”

“I’ll cut out your tongue,” Flint said and bit his own, realizing how utterly insane he sounded, talking this way in civilized society. 

Weirdly enough, Silver didn’t seem too put off by this outburst. “All right then. Sorry, Mr. Flint. No need to resort to threats of violence. I scare easily. Refill?” A new shot of Milagros was pushed across the bar before Flint even knew what was happening. Silver’s fingers brushed his as he drew the empty tumbler out of Flint’s hand. “What about the person responsible for the tattoo you won’t talk about? What did they call you?”

“Do you actually have a deathwish?” Flint blurted out.

“I’m a bartender. Getting people to open up about their deep, dark secrets is literally what I do for a living.”

“You peddle booze for a living. You’re not a fucking therapist.”

“So it ended badly then?”

Flint shook his head. “Incorrigible.”

“Oh dear, are they dead too?” Flint’s eyebrows moved and Silver froze. “Shit. I’m so sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m fucking with you,” Flint said, throwing the tequila back. “He’s alive. It was… complicated.” 

“His loss, I guess.” Silver was away on the opposite side of the bar by the time his words registered with Flint. He placed a twenty dollar bill on the countertop and slipped through the crowd and out the door, into the cold, wet air of summer San Francisco.

***

It was a Monday night. Flint checked Bar Walrus’ website to make sure they were opened, and of course they were. People were thirsty (but Flint bet none quite so much as himself). But he did do one thing right this time: Monday, as he had hoped, was a quiet night at the Walrus. 

For all his cleverness, there was one thing he had not been counting on: no sign of Silver. Flint should have planned for this possibility, it wasn't like he knew the guy’s schedule. Instead, a lumbering piece of manmeat towered behind the bar. Flint gave this one a professional once over as well, for good measure, and decided he needed to find out where this dude worked out because as the kids say _daaaaaamn_. He did not know who this mysterious “owner” of Bar Walrus was, but he should definitely send them a “thank you” note.

Triceps asked Flint for his order and didn’t even bother to card him once. That figured. Well, Flint spent twenty minutes driving here and twenty more minutes looking for fucking parking, so he might as well stay for a drink. They had Cazadores again, and he sipped his tequila slowly, admiring the view god had granted him, even if it wasn’t the view he had come there for.

“Well, well, well,” Flint smiled in recognition of that voice as it poured from behind into his ear. “James Flint, as I live and breathe. Third time now? Guess that makes you a regular.”

“John,” Flint nodded towards the man who had parked himself on a stool next to him. “Not tending the bar today?”

“Billy’s got it covered,” Silver nodded towards Triceps. “I have a shit ton of accounting to do. Believe it or not, I’m not just a pretty face.” And neck, and pecs, and all the other muscle groups, Flint enumerated mentally. “If the books aren’t balanced, Max will have my ass.”

“Will he?” Flint smirked.

“ _She_ most certainly will.” So, the mysterious Beatles-loving owner of Bar Walrus was a woman. Flint wondered if Silver was fucking her. Just, you know, out of morbid curiosity. “What about you? Do you work around here? Because you definitely don’t live around here.”

“That obvious?”

“I’ve seen your driver’s license. Twice.”

“Ah.”

“You really are not a wealth of information about yourself.” Silver laughed. It was a strained laugh that gave away some inner exasperation. It occurred to Flint that against all odds (and his charming personality), Silver might actually _like_ him. That thought sent shivers down his spine and rendered him even more mute. “Billy, hit him again!” Silver ordered before Flint could protest. “This one’s on the house.”

“You’re really trying to loosen my tongue.”

The way Silver’s eyes lingered on Flint’s lips as he said _tongue_ made a deep flush creep up Flint’s chest and onto his neck. He hoped the bar was dark enough to cover his embarrassment. He used to be a lot more confident about his conquests in the past, but life does a number on you sometimes. Now, the only thing Flint felt confident about was riding the waves.

“I work in Daly City,” he finally offered. “I’m a physical therapist at a rehab center. Most of my work is with vets.”

“Wow, that’s a lot more noble than peddling booze!” Silver exclaimed with lightness that still cut as he threw Flint’s words from their last meeting back into his face.

“I guess I like to fix broken people,” Flint shrugged and smiled, gathering up the courage to meet Silver’s eyes. They were still incredible. “Which I imagine is par for the course for you as well.”

“You can do that, I suppose,” Silver smiled back. “If they’re broken physically.”

“Sometimes.”

They sat in silence which stretched out between them like an endless horizon. Silver’s eyes were the same shade that the Pacific became during a particularly clear sunset. The dim lighting of the wall sconces did nothing to dull their shimmer.

“I need to…” Silver finally spoke.

“Right. Accounting.”

“Will you still be here when we close up?” Something about the hitch in Silver’s voice as he asked that question set Flint’s entire body aflame.

“I gotta… be up early,” he muttered.

“All right then.”

“All right.”

“See you around, Flint.”

“Later, John.”

If there was ever a man in existence whom Flint hated more than himself at that moment, he was not aware of it.

***

Flint filled his bathroom sink with cold water and dipped his entire face into it for thirty seconds. He’d read somewhere this was a legitimate technique for calming oneself the fuck down and he hoped that he wasn’t just making this up. In the morning, there would be plenty more cold water in his face when he went out for his first surf of the day. But at that moment, he just wanted to be calm enough to sleep.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asked his own reflection as drops of water dripped onto his chest, making him shiver from the cold. “You used to not be afraid of anything,” he chided himself. 

But it was hard, he knew it was hard, to fix yourself once you’ve been broken.

His doorbell rang causing his dog to bark and startling him out of his indulgent self-pity. But who the hell rang doorbells in Pacifica? Flint padded out towards his front door on bare feet, throwing a well-worn hoodie over his exposed torso and not bothering to zip it up. Whoever the hell was dumb enough to disturb him at this hour of night could bloody well deal.

“What?” Flint snarled opening the unlocked door. “Oh…”

“I brought the really, really good tequila.”

“Silver.”

“John is fine,” Silver shifted his hips from one side to the other in a tentative yet alluring way that reminded Flint of that song that he'd heard at the bar the first night they met. “May I come in?”

Flint grunted and stepped out of the way, allowing Silver to enter. “How are you here?”

“I took an Uber, which wasn't cheap, by the way. So, thanks for not throwing me out.”

Silver's eyes trailed over Flint's coterie of surfboards and he turned about, distracted by the St. Charles spaniel who came to sniff at him from the back of the house. 

“I didn't mean how…” Flint trailed off, distracted by Silver's jeans again, or rather how they did absolutely nothing to hide the delightful contours of his tight ass.

“I've seen your driver's license,” Silver reminded him. 

“Do you normally make it a point to memorize your customers’ addresses?”

“No,” Silver replied, straightening up, “but then again, I also don't make it a point to show up at their house in the middle of the night with their booze of choice.” With that, he extended the bottle towards Flint. “Why do you think I carded you twice? Call this an apology for stalking you.”

Flint took a step towards Silver and took the bottle out of his hands, placing it on the nearest available surface. Silver had not taken a step back and Flint was enveloped in the warmth that appeared to pool between their bodies as they stood mere inches away from each other. He reached up, suddenly a lot braver than he’s felt since the first time they met, and brushed Silver’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear.

“John,” he whispered. That name alone, so common, so nondescript, felt like a prayer upon his lips. Or an answer to one.

Both of Silver’s hands came up, slowly brushing over the zipper and the soft fleece of his loose hoodie, his thumbs just barely grazed over the exposed skin of Flint’s chest, then trailed up his neck, until Silver held his face in the palms of his hands.

“James.”

Flint closed his eyes and swayed into Silver’s touch.

“James,” he repeated, leaning in until their lips brushed and their bodies collided with each other, sinking against their respective weights.

***

The call of the sea was always strong in the early hours of dawn. The tidal pull made Flint arise before the sun ever had the chance to penetrate the marine layer or the heavy drapes of his bedroom. Not so that morning, when he opened his eyes and found himself staring into a wild mop of curls. 

John Silver lay naked and warm, wrapped up in his arms as if they were a warm comforter. They had fallen asleep last night, drunk on the tequila and each other, trading lazy kisses until their eyelids became too heavy to lift. Flint drew his finger down John’s side, loving finally being able to feel that pronounced serratus muscle under his armpit under the pads of his fingers. He could do this for roughly a century, he decided, do nothing but touch this man, put his mouth all over him, in places that perhaps no one else had ever thought to kiss and lick before (like that delectable armpit). His thumb brushed over the tiny nub of one of John’s pierced nipples, bringing it to life and making his lover gasp and open his eyes.

“Not at this ungodly hour,” Silver whispered, lifting his chin up and presenting his beautiful lips to be kissed again.

“Sorry, babe,” Flint giggled, letting his thumb slide down and press under the incredibly well-defined pectoral of his companion. “I usually wake up this early to go surfing.”

“I’m cold just thinking about it,” Silver announced, shivering and pressing his body closer. “Go the fuck back to sleep, James.”

Flint pressed a kiss to Silver’s forehead, holding him tightly. “When I first moved out here, all I wanted was to catch some waves, find some peace… Pacifica, you know?”

“What’s in a name?” Silver chuckled into Flint’s neck.

“For the first time in a long while now, I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do than stay in bed,” Flint admitted, as his blood rose to the surface of his face and neck.

“I never pegged you for such a romantic,” Silver teased, pressing a kiss into the hollow between Flint’s collarbones.

“You’re the one who just quoted fucking _Romeo and Juliet_.”

“You recognized it!”

“It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“Stop arguing with me. I can think of five things off the top of my head that your mouth is better suited for, just based on last night.”

“Don’t treat me like some harlot!”

“But you’re so good at harlotry…”

………. Outside, a neighbor’s gate slammed. Someone else started their pick-up truck and pulled out into the narrow residential street. Three dogs barked and the waves crashed over and over again against the cliffs of Rockaway Beach, eroding the landscape a bit more with each merciless pass.

James Flint never did make it out for his morning surf that day.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this <3 Happy Gift Exchanging!


End file.
